


Explorations of Self

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Masturbation, Meditation, Misuse of therapeutic visualisation, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Siphoning, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Wet & Messy, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Rung's advice Drift undertakes a guided visualisation to help him come to terms with his past.<br/>The encounter with his past in the form of Deadlock turns into one of the weirdest meditation sessions Drift has ever experienced. (He won't be telling Rung about it, either)<br/>Basically: Drift frags himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explorations of Self

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OniGil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/gifts).



> 'You sound like you're suffering' ~ Visitor comment upon overhearing my running verbal commentary on the edit.
> 
> I could only stand to edit this trainwreck once. Please let me know if you find typos, ok?

Drift entered his quarters aboard the Lost Light, running over the procedure for the meditation technique he was about to employ as he racked his swords. Rung had suggested the new twist on his daily meditation practise that he was about to try. Some way of combining psychotherapeutic techniques with something Drift was already familiar and comfortable with.

The Swordsmech was aware that he couldn’t change the past or ever fully forgive himself for what he’d done as a Decepticon. However, Rung was insistent that Drift’s obsessing over things he couldn’t change was harming both himself and his relationships in the here-and-now.

So here he was, about to take a meditative walk down memory lane and make the first steps in accepting a part of his life he would much rather never face again.

Drift wasn’t exactly sure how this was supposed to work, but he’d humour Rung and give it a try anyway.

Primus forbid Ratchet ever find out about this. It combined so many things the Medic wasn’t comfortable with that he’d probably never stay in the same room with Drift again without physical restraints being involved.

A dark part of Drift’s processor perked up at the idea of himself, the CMO and the creative use of medical restraints. It was quickly stuffed into the deletion spool as he sat and started calming his mind for meditation.

The Swordsmech offlined his optics, cycling his vents slowly and thoroughly.

_Alright, here we go. Step one; imagine my life as a corridor and place myself in that corridor._

Following the outline suggested by Rung, Drift turned his attention inward. The Swordsmech’s venting slowed without his conscious direction. His awareness of his quarters fell away as the scene he constructed in his mind firmed, gaining depth and focus.

In his mind’s eye, Drift stood in a long hall with long lines of doors along both walls. Each door opened onto a room containing memory files and recreations of events from his lifecycle, anything and everything that had a hand in shaping the mech he was. The state of each door said more clearly than the little plaques attached to them just what kind of memory lay behind each one.

Looking straight ahead, Drift strode determinedly down the imaginary corridor in his mind, moving into his past until he reached a section of corridor that stank of weapons fire, spilled energon and violence. The floor which had become the kind of reinforced grillework that allowed spilled fluids to drain away quickly without making a mess. His pedesteps echoed hollowly on the thick grating in a disturbingly familiar way.

This was the section of archival memory dedicated solely to the time he went by the designation ‘Deadlock’. Megatron’s Mad Dog and one of the most feared Decepticons of the later part of the war.

Running his glossa contemplatively over the pointed denta he retained from that time, Drift considered the doors, wondering which memory file would best suit his purpose.

_I don’t want to go too far back, but I don’t want to go too close to the end, either._

Drift needed something relatively safe to confront for the first time trying this, but not something too easy that wouldn’t provide himself with some sort of challenge.

_‘Face yourself and accept the past because it’s a part of who you are’ my aft. I don’t want to be here, I don’t need this._

Before he could talk himself out of it, Drift slammed a door open at random and strode into the room beyond. He plunged into the reconstructed memory-scene with his hands over his swords and frame language as belligerent as anything he’d ever presented to the world as Deadlock.

Unsurprisingly, the room was familiar.

It was the berthrom of quarters aboard Turmoil’s ship. From the looks of the decorations this memory dated to just after he’d been promoted to the position of Second in Command. A shudder ran down Drift’s backstruts and he turned on his heel, intending to leave the memory via the same door he’d used to enter and bring himself up out of the meditation. He wasn’t ready to face this.

Instead of the expected clear path to the door Drift found himself facing the muzzle of an extremely familiar blaster. One he’d lost in an explosion about ten vorns before meeting Wing and still mourned for the sheer perfection with which it had fitted his hand.

“Where do you think you’re going, Autobot?”

_WHAT?!_

“And what the slag are you doing in my quarters?!”

Drift reset his optics, focusing beyond the muzzle of his old blaster to see the mech holding it.

It was Drift.

Or rather; Drift as he had been when he was Deadlock.

Red optics narrowed in a glare, armour flared aggressively and frame language threatening violence. Solvent ran from Deadlock’s frame as if he had head the intruder and charged straight out of the washracks to block the only clear avenue of escape.

_What the slag? Which memory is this?!_

Drift wracked his processor, finally coming up with the correct timestamp for this odd little memory file he’d accidentally wandered into.

Cycling his optics stupidly at the snarling memory-version of himself, Drift realised that this was one of the first few times he’d used the private washracks that came with being 2IC. The first time he’d been able to bathe in peace without worrying about having to fight off unwanted advances.

_Oh. No wonder he –I mean I- reacted like that._

Wait, was his memory-self even _supposed_ to react to his own presence? And what _was_ there about this memory that had made him choose it at random from all the others? Rung would probably have something to say about subconscious biases and the kind of stuff. He would explain it using words and jargon that were many, many education levels over Drift’s head.

 _That is_ not _my problem now. I should be trying to work out what’s going on here!_

 Oh, right. This wasn’t _exactly_ a memory replay, per se. Drift was supposed to interact with a loose copy of the memory and come to terms with whatever it contained, reshaping events to achieve the goal of this therapeutic meditation.

_And how the slag am I supposed to do that?!_

“You haven’t answered my question, pretty mech.” The past-Drift – _No, Deadlock_ \- snarled, stepping forward so that the slowly heating muzzle of the blaster was pressed to the armour of Drift’s forehelm.

 _Not good._ Seriously _not good. How do I defuse this without getting into a stupid fight with myself in my own head?_

“I’ll only repeat myself once more before I take those swords of yours and start carving the answer out of you myself,” Deadlock bared his sharpened denta, advancing on the Swordsmech until he was pressed against the wall. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

Drift could feel the Greatsword pressing against the length of his spine, sandwiched between the armour plating of his back and the bulkheads. He did _not_ want to find out what would happen if he drew it on Deadlock –on himself- in this little recreation. Rung would probably have a field day with the psychological implications of the act, too. _If_ Drift ever found the courage to tell him.

 _Psychological implications_. . .

Something about those words, recalled in Rung’s voice jolted this scenario into place in Drift’s mind. He could place this memory now.

It was just after the first time Turmoil had taken him.

The Decepticon Commander had started out with overload-denial games, later moving into the more sadistic games in his repertoire of humiliation. After that first time Drift had gone back to his quarters and tried to scrub the feel of his superior off, seeking his own denied overload in the process.

It had eluded him completely.

He’d wanted, _needed_ something and that unknown something had kept him from achieving overload.

Drift still wasn’t sure exactly what it was he wanted, but all the frustrated arousal of the memory surged through him as he recalled that shower and the circumstances had brought him to the state Deadlock was in now.

 “You look familiar, Autobot. Have I shot you somewhere before?” Deadlock’s helm tilted to the side, red optics boring into Drift. “No, I don’t think I have. In fact, if I didn’t know better I’d say that this was one slagging _strange_ dream and that you’re _me_.”

Seizing the chance to take control of this visualisation, to figuratively snatch the reigns back from this fragment of his past, Drift jumped on the opening. At the same time, one of the most ill-advised ideas he’d ever had popped into his processor, fuelled by remembered need and the slow burn of charge rising within him in response.

_Slag it, why not? I’ve done stupider things in my time. Besides, this is just some sort of weird fantasy scenario. I don’t have to tell Rung I even tried this._

“You’re right. I am you. What you could have been if things had been different.” The Swordsmech spoke quickly, easily recognising all the signs of an itchy trigger finger in his younger self. He smiled invitingly at Deadlock, deliberately dropping the pitch of his vocalisation. “We do share the same past, though. I’m here to help you with something. That is; if you’d like me to.”

He allowed his EM field to extend, half-expecting to not encounter anything. Instead, he caressed the roiling mix of aggression and lust that surrounded Deadlock, pressing back with arousal and willingness to please.

The reaction was explosive.

Deadlock subspaced his weapon in a motion almost too fast for Drift to track, lunging forward to press the streamlined mech against the wall with his frame instead of a blaster. Grabbing Drift roughly by the wrists, Deadlock pinned his hands above his helm and caught Drift’s lipplates with his own. His kiss was rough and demanding, full of glossa and sharp denta.

Kissing wasn’t a skill Drift had perfected by any means, but he was still far better than he had been when this memory was created. His hands were trapped above his helm so he couldn’t touch, allowing Drift to put his full concentration into seducing his past with lipplates and glossa. While he allowed Deadlock to dominate and provide direction, Drift followed with the same fluid grace Wing had attempted to teach him with swords, exploring with glossa and nibbling at dark grey lipplates until Deadlock broke away gasping. His optics looked wild, blazing above his stunned expression.

Drift couldn’t help himself. He smirked, deliberately running his glossa slowly over his upper lipplate to collect the lingering taste of Deadlock’s oral solvents. His primary cooling fans had engaged with a noticeable whoosh, joined by Deadlocks as those red, red optics followed the path of Drift’s glossa.

That little challenge was answered by the uncontrolled rev of a high-performance engine and the returning pressure of Deadlock’s frame. This time the Decepticon mouthed over Drift’s neck, glossa probing at the tough coverings of cabling which protected neural circuitry and energon lines. A sharp nip and it was Drift’s turn to gasp, optics wide and unseeing as Deadlock skilfully made the smallest nick possible in a minor energon line. Processed fuel oozed slowly from the cut to be cleaned away with long, sensual strokes of the purring Decepticon’s glossa.

Drift moaned, lust pouring through his frame at the scent of freshly spilled energon, the feel of the glossa on his cables. His secondary cooling systems came on in a rush, dumping the swiftly accumulating heat from his frame as he writhed in Deadlock’s grip. The Decepticon chuckled darkly, closing his lipplates around the wound his denta had inflicted and probing it with his glossa.

It had been so long, too long since Drift had been able to indulge in this. It wasn’t something done within the civilised walls New Crystal City, nor was it an Autobot thing to do. Most Decepticons had misunderstood entirely.

Here, with himself, Drift could have it again for whatever small space of time he was allowed.

Drift consciously surrendered control of the situation to the memory of his past self. He would give Deadlock what he wanted, what he had _needed_ that day in his washracks and wouldn’t find again for ages afterwards. Feeling the surrender in his EM Field Deadlock hummed into his neck cables, the sound drowned by the combined revving of their engines.

Charge was already building, too fast to be shunted safely away into buffering structures. Free electrons jumped between the two mechs as the Decepticon laid one last lick up Drift’s neck cables and pulled away, removing the support of his frame at the same time as he released his captive’s wrists.

Drift dropped to his knees, so dizzied by force of his own arousal he was unable to keep his feet without the support of Memory-Deadlock.

Over his longing moan at the loss of contact, Drift could hear a low growl and the familiar sound of his interfacing cover transforming into hiding.

How could it not be familiar? He’d heard the same sound so many times over the course of his life that for a moment Drift almost thought that it was his own interface cover opening up, sliding away in automatic response to his state of arousal. But there was nothing on his HUD to indicate that it was happening.

Bringing his optics back online ( _When did I shut them off?_ ) Drift saw a familiar spike from an unfamiliar angle. It was erect and straining, overclean from his/their/his previous activity in the washracks. Drift looked up at himself to see Deadlock’s knowing sneer.

 _He thinks I won’t. He obviously doesn’t know himself. Slag, I_ still _don’t know myself._

Deliberately meeting the Decepticon’s optics, Drift leaned forward and parted his lipplates, kissing the ridged head of Deadlock’s spike.

The Decepticon’s entire frame jumped spasmodically as Drift held still, held his gaze and brought his glossa into play, scattering teasing little licks all over the tip of the charcoal-and-white spike. Deadlock stared him down, visible charge snaking over his plating as Drift slowly engulfed the entire head of the spike, working it over with his glossa as it slipped into his oral cavity.

He’d forgotten how little patience he had –has?- as Deadlock twitched his hops forward, forcing his shaft deeper into Drift’s mouth. Light reflected from his cheekpieces as he groaned deep within his frame at having all the tricks he’d learned in the gutters _finally_ put into practice on his own spike.

Drift knew he was safe from having the spike rammed into his intake. It was one of the few things he’d never inflicted on anyone, even captives who’d been tortured in a variety of cruel ways. The one time he’d tried it the sounds had killed his charge more thoroughly than liquid nitrogen, too many memories boiling up from the depths of his processor for him to continue.

Following Deadlock’s little hint, Drift began to move slowly over the spike. A particularly hard suck followed by a gentle roll of his glossa over the complex mechanics of the tip had Deadlock bracing himself against the wall, optics offline and pistons hammering in a decidedly erotic manner.

The sound had Drift’s own interface cover folding back into his armour in time with the thunder of Deadlock’s engine, the sound imperfectly hidden beneath the noise of their cooling systems. Deadlock’s optics came back online, narrowed with interest as he watched Drift’s spike rise into the air. Drift caught the motes of red light reflecting from the armour of his thighs and pretended not to notice, taking his spike in hand as he continued his oral assault on Deadlock.

An all-encompassing hissing intake of vents followed the first few slow motions of Drift’s hand, his other hand moving to prop himself up as both past and future selves strained to cool their frames. He had to pause, draw back from the spike and gasp for extra air as his cooling system pinged a warning.

While he brought his core temperature back down Drift never stopped stroking his spike, the white biolights pulsing in time with his building charge. The rod before his optics twitched, clear fluid with the barest trace of silver nanites dribbling from the complex mechanisms of the spike head.

Deadlock took advantage of the pause in Drift’s offensive to grab the red-and-white mech under the arms and heave him to his pedes, hauling him over to the berth and tossing him on it with more care than he would usually take with his the kind of interfacing partner he’d encounterd while serving with Turmoil.

“My turn.” Deadlock purred dangerously, crawling up over the speedster sprawled across his/their berth and reaching to pull Drift’s hands away from the biolight-decorated spike.

_Oh I am so NOT getting into a spike-sucking competition with myself._

Drift twisted in a complicated series of movements he wouldn’t have known to anticipate or counter at this point in his history. Bucking, he caught a surprised Deadlock around the waist with his thighs and rolled so that he came up straddling his Decepticon self.

Deadlock’s look of bank shock morphed into a scowl of pure outrage. Anger and the promise of immanent violence filled his lust-soaked EM Field. All he’d ever known of this position was humiliation, degradation, and suffering.

Drift wasn’t going to give it to him.

Instead, he dodged a punch and allowed his wrists to be captured, easily riding the violent writhing of the pinned mech. Deadlock wasn’t a match for him at this kind of combat and after a while the Decepticon realised it, subsiding to gasp for air as his frame threatened to overhead. When he did, Drift brought his full weight forwards, crushing their arms between them to spread wet open-mouthed kisses along the darker mech’s cheekpieces and their wealth of hidden sensors.

Deadlock’s angry growl became a startled gargle under the attention; exploding into an open-mouthed cry of pleasure as Drift flattened his glossa against the convex sensor housings in long licks, layering oral solvents over them which he dried with heated ex-vents from his oral cavity. Collecting himself, Deadlock snaked his head around and closed his denta around the smooth blade of Drift’s audial flare. He bit far harder than necessary to express his displeasure at being the one pinned to the berth.

Drift moaned, going still over the Decepticon and indulging in a prolonged full-frame shiver as sharp denta created a line of tiny pinpoint dents up the long edge of his audial flare. Deadlock reached the tip and started back down, probing each impression with his glossa to test for leaking energon. When he started sucking at the tender metal Drift could feel lubrication from his valve overflowing to run slowly down his thighs. Blindly searching for an anchor to counter the storm Deadlock’s denta were unleashing on his neural net, Drift lowered his hips.

Even fogged with lust as he was, Drift’s aim was flawless. The swollen folds of his valve encountered Deadlock’s spike, coating it with the pinkish lubricant he was now producing in copious amounts. Drift proceeded to rut himself against Deadlock’s spike, moaning at the blissful pressure and satisfying slide of the spike against the sensor-rich external folds of his valve.

Deadlock made a startled noise around his mouthful of audial flare which went straight to Drift’s spike where it hung twitching in the space between their abdominal armour. He tugged gently against the hold on his wrists and Deadlock moved with him, following the motion and coming to rest with his hands over Drift’s, controlling the pace with which the desperate mech stroked his spike.

While Drift was distracted by the dual sensations from spike and exterior valve folds, Deadlock nipped another little slice into one of his energon lines just above the point where it disappeared beneath Drift’s collar fairing. It was a little deeper than the first, his self-control frayed by the lust clouding his systems but he made no move to avoid the processed energon which dripped in a slow stream onto his faceplates, splattering warm pink across grey.

Deadlock moaned, engine howling as he licked as much of Drift’s energon from his own faceplates as he could reach before wrapping his lipplates around the damaged line and letting the processed energon flow directly down his intake. Drift pressed his face into Deadlock’s shoulder and keened, hands stilling on his spike as his while frame shook.

“Go on, do it.” Deadlock growled around his mouthful of neck cabling. “It’s why you kept them, isn’t it?”

Drift panted, resetting his vocaliser as the vibration of the words against the fresh wound sent delicious little trickles of pleasure-pain through his cortex.

“Part of the reason, but yeah.” Drift’s vocalisations were rough and crackled with static.

Still, he couldn’t exactly lie to himself about it anymore.

Not here, not staring himself in the face with hunger and lust.

Leaning forward, Drift carefully cleaned some of his sticky energon off Deadlock’s face with long, animalistic swipes of his glossa. Present and past shuddered in concert at the sensation.

Too much and not enough. He _wanted_.

Frame shaking with long-suppressed yearning as he adjusted his hips, Drift let his valve sink down over Deadlock’s spike in order to distract his past self. It was a smooth, deliberate slide that had the Decepticon arching up against the berth with helm thrown back to bare his vulnerable neck cabling to Drift’s predatory optics.

In that instant Drift chose his target and struck.

A secondary energon line whispered open with a quick slice from the pair of pointed denta Drift had retained as a reminder of whom and what he had been. Processed energon oozed from the cuts and for a long moment Drift wavered, inhaling the scent while he slowly rode Deadlock’s spike.

The complex tangle of emotions aroused by the first smell of processed energon became a single blinding flare of desire/certainty/relief consuming Drift’s entire being. He lowered his helm, sealing his lipplates over the source of fresh energon accumulating on Deadlock’s neck cables, ignoring his own where it was drying in sticky patches on the Decepticon’s overheated faceplates in favour of tasting from the source.

Drift’s hips slammed down hard. The head of Deadlock’s spike fit into the receptors at the top of his valve as if they had been precision engineered for each other; current and data surging up into Drift as his past-self howled against his chestplates. Drift released his hold on Deadlock’s energon line for fear of accidentally biting through it as his entire frame seized in the grip of one of the most powerful overloads of his existence.

“ _Yes!_ ”

The sound of his own scream echoing back from the walls of his berthroom on the Lost Light shocked Drift out of the meditative trance and back into full awareness of his frame just in time to feel his spike release a searing rush of reproductive nanites. His primary interfacing panel hadn’t retracted, leaving the fresh spurt of fluid to join the pool of trapped lubricant that had leaked from his port during the unorthodox meditation session.

He had one instant of stunned awareness, vaguely registering the feel of hot lubricant and nanites oozing out through the seams of his pelvic armour before the backlog of electrical current pounced on the end of his trance state, slamming through his frame with a kick like an angry Metrotitan.

Drift entered a rolling cascade of overloads that didn’t stop until safety protocols were tripped that forced him offline. His frame fell sideways, collapsing in the embarrassingly large puddle of silver and translucent pink liquid spreading from his still-closed pelvic armour.

**Author's Note:**

> What Drift does here is the bastard offspring of a guided visualization and a vaguely-CBT-related technique a therapist once suggested to me. (Revisiting a traumatic memory and taking control of it, changing it so the outcome is better) Of course this is Drift, so things don't go according to plan.


End file.
